Say You Won't Let Go
by luckly the dorkfish
Summary: After a night of drinking, Sherlock lets something major slip and John must now sort out his own feelings through the wake of Sherlock's confession


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, because if I did, they would always be in love with each other and they would always find their way back home to one another. They deserve that much, and I will always believe in my boys.**

* * *

 _I knew I loved you then_  
 _But you'd never know_  
 _'Cause I played it cool when I was scared of letting go_  
 _I know I needed you_  
 _But I never showed_  
 _But I wanna stay with you until we're grey and old_  
 _Just say you won't let go_  
 _Just say you won't let go_

* * *

Wine is definitely one of life's greater blessings. Especially when one Sherlock Holmes is reduced to a giggling, bubbly mess. Sherlock is a very happy drunk. Well, this isn't exactly news. The Stag Night fiasco was proof enough that Sherlock was a delightfully silly human being when absolutely sloshed. Tonight is no different. Sherlock sits in his signature black chair, the death frisby of a hat perched haphazardly atop his riotous curls as John giggles against his fist at something the detective says, but he can't quite remember what it was. An impish grin spreads across John's face as he peers closely at his dear friend. Sherlock giggles madly when John informs him that he looks marvelous in the hat.

Suddenly, as if inspiration strikes, Sherlock surges out of his chair-far more gracefully than any drunk should have the capacity for-and tugs John to his feet and leads them into a sloppy waltz. John steps on his feet more often than not, but Sherlock giggles all the more as John's face grows redder with every drunken misstep. In some part of John's brain, bright, flashing **DANGER** signs are blaring for his attention, but right now, the blogger could not be happier with how the evening is progressing.

After Mary died, and John was left to raise a child all on his own, he returned to Baker Street expecting Sherlock to kick him right back out again, but his friend only blinked, called him an idiot, and uncharacteristically helped John move his and Rosie's belongings back up to his old room. Things are halted and awkward, though. Things are quiet and normal . Now that he thinks about it, Sherlock's been behaving this way long before his and Mary's divorce. Sherlock's been nothing but considerate for the past three months now that the Watsons live with him. No spontaneous violin performances in the dead of night. No shooting at the wall... **Nothing** . To say John's been on edge is an understatement.

He's finally had enough. With Rosie downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock's supposedly in his mind palace while John pretends to read the paper, John risks a glance at the other man. He does not expect to see a pair of sad, verdigris eyes trained on his own before quickly slamming shut. Maybe Sherlock believes that if he is quick enough, John won't notice the sadness still lurking around his features. But John sees and no one knows Sherlock Holmes better than John Watson.

That's been happening a lot lately. Whenever Sherlock thinks John can't see him, he looks heartbroken, as if he wants desperately to say something, but the words never come out right. Now, though, John's had enough.

That's how they end up here. John procures their finer whisky, grabs two glasses, deposits one into the detective's hand, and the drinking begins. The dancing is just a nice perk of the drinking, really. John would never admit it out loud, but it was moments like these that made him realize with an alarming clarity that he loves the other man so fiercely.

He would never actually tell Sherlock any of this. He knows this isn't Sherlock's area, but John's feelings feel near to bursting while the detective giggles softly into John's ear as they stumble over each other. The dance slows into something soft as Sherlock's hand trails up John's arm to mirror the other one on John's shoulder. Between one breath and the next, Sherlock steps impossibly closer and drapes his arms around John's neck. The former soldier's arms automatically wrap around the detective's too thin waist as he tries to calm his racing heart. He has to forcefully remind himself that Sherlock is much more drunk than he is, and the Consulting Detective can't really be held accountable for his actions.

John hears a soft sigh and he could swear that he feels just the barest hint of a kiss against his greying hair before a soft, "I missed you," reaches John's ears.

"I'm here now, Sherlock," is whispered just as quietly back.

Sherlock giggles once more, but he never stops leading them into a gentle sway of hips. In a move that is uncharacteristically beneath a Holmes, Sherlock stumbles over his own feet and collides into John. If the doctor had been more drunk, he would not have remained standing, but, as it were, John only steadies the other man. A slimmer body presses into John's and a sharp chin rest on John's good shoulder as he continues to try and lead them into a sloppy waltz. This sets the detective off once more and long fingers tangle themselves into a wooly jumper as he moves back enough to glance down at his dear friend. Sharp, piercing eyes grow achingly softer and into something so tender and reverent as a slow smile spreads across the detective's reddened face. This sobers John up quickly. He pulls the detective impossibly closer into a firm embrace, hoping he can get away with it considering Sherlock's intoxicated state. A happy sigh escapes past cupid bow lips as he softly demands, "Stay with me tonight."

And just like that, John's heart begins racing. He leans back enough to put space between them as he mutters out unintelligently, "I... uh… I think you should get some rest, Sherlock."

The sad look from before passes across his bright eyes briefly until he nods his head, his soft smile never truly leaving his face while his eyes remain impossibly sad as he lisps out a , "S'okay, Jawn. I know." The detective draws John into a warm embrace, the doctor's face presses into Sherlock's shirt. He could swear that the ghost of lips once again press against John's hairline, before the detective saunters away to his room before John can really make sense of any of it.

Right before the door closes behind the lanky man, Sherlock looks over his shoulder, his smile turning softer as he gently declares, "Goodnight, Jawn. I love you," and then he is gone. The door closes before John can say or do anything but stare at the wooden barrier.

The doctor does not know how long he stands there, but the happy buzz from before has long since diminished into panic, disbelief, and a wild hope that threatens to send him to his knees.

'That can't be, though. Right? The detective would never say anything like that out loud unless…' John suddenly finds a moment of clarity, ' Unless he were drunk. Right. ' That makes much more sense. Alcohol makes a fool out of many. Sherlock can't be held accountable for the things he says. He's a lightweight. Sherlock probably just means it in some platonic, flatmate way. Right?

Still, that hope-the damnable hope-is enough to push rational thought aside. If Sherlock does feel the same way, then they don't need to waste any more time. He's not getting any younger and Sherlock is just beginning to grey around his temples. They can't keep living this way, balanced on the edge of something more .

He squints into the dim light of the sitting room to the clock on the microwave as he realizes Mrs. Hudson will be bringing Rosie up in only a few hours. He may as well get some sleep while he can. He sighs as he slowly begins the trek up to his own room. With Rosie downstairs and Sherlock's drunken mumblings so fresh in his mind, his room feels lonelier than it has in a long time.

He quickly sheds his clothes down to his pants, throws on a ratty t-shirt, and flops backwards on his bed, begging his mind to stop racing with every "what if" long enough to get a few hours of rest before he has to face Sherlock and whatever the day may bring.

* * *

Sherlock hears each pounding footstep Mrs. Hudson takes on the stairs as she brings the squirming toddler up to see her father and godfather. Each noise seems to be amplified, and each delighted shriek seeming louder than really necessary as Sherlock's head pounds in time. He sits up with a groan and rubs his temples with a resigned sigh. He's not going back to sleep now. He knows he'll have to face John sooner or later, but right now, a little girl needs him. He shields his eyes from the blinding light streaming in from the sitting room when he opens his bedroom door to meet Mrs. Hudson and the little girl he has loved from the moment she was born.

Mrs. Hudson takes one look at his ashen expression and his weakened eyes and nods her head without another word. She takes Rosie into the kitchen with her and magically acquires tea and paracetamol for Sherlock to take for the blistering headache he is no doubt experiencing.

He nods gratefully, takes the medicine, and picks up the squirming toddler demanding his attention by punctuating each waving fist with an insistent, " Up! Up! Up!" He smiles down at this beautiful little girl as he takes her from a smiling Mrs. Hudson. He gently shushes her as she squeals out peals of laughter as she smacks his face with her chubby, little fingers. He gently reprimands her by explaining that daddy is asleep right now and that they would need to be very quiet in order for John to get some much needed rest. She only giggles softly and nods as if she understands completely as she puts a small finger against his lips and says, "Shhh."

Sherlock gathers the little one close to his chest as he sinks down onto the sitting room rug. He pulls out several of her toys and lays them out to pick the first game they will begin playing together. Instantly, she reaches for her favorite blocks and begins constructing fantastical buildings as she explains each building's purpose in excited gibberish. Sherlock nods his head seriously as if whatever she is saying is the utmost truth. They play for a few hours together building tall towers only for the excited toddler to knock it down in a fit of giggles with Sherlock's own low rumble mixing in.

* * *

John's eyes snap open as Rosie lets out a loud shriek. He scrambles out of bed and he is down the stairs in seconds only to find his little girl with her head thrown back, giggling madly as Sherlock pretends to be a dragon destroying the stacked blocks in front of him. With a deep, rumbling roar, and bared teeth, he pretends to breath fire and flap imaginary wings all for Rosie's enjoyment. Before John can stop himself, his own quieter laughter joins in.

Sherlock's head whips around at breakneck speed as he instantly drops his arms and straightens to his full height. A scarlet blush spreads across his cheeks and his eyes widen as Sherlock realizes he's been caught doing something sentimental and incredibly ridiculous.

When John finally stops laughing, they stare at each not knowing what to do or what to say to the other. A shouted, "Papa," causes both men to jump in alarm, but it does cause some of the tension to dissipate as little Rosie runs to John in demands to be picked up. He hoists his little one in the air and she giggles as John brings her back down to cuddle her against his broad chest.

He holds her close and hugs her tightly as a small smile spreads across his face. He shuts his eyes to savor the moment just a little bit longer as she continues to softly giggle against his ear. He re-opens his eyes and as he goes to look at his young daughter, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock just over her shoulder, smiling softly at the scene playing out in front of him. His verdigris eyes look on with so much adoration and love, but it still feels bittersweet. The same sadness from before is evidently there.

The moment only lasts for a few seconds, but time carries onward as he kisses her forehead, and sets her down again to allow her to play with her blocks once more.

It's only when John steps up to the other man does Sherlock realize he's staring and a blush stains across alabaster skin. That look. That sadness is what causes John to hope once more. He remembers that look. He's worn it so many times after Sherlock died..

As Sherlock goes to move away, John gently takes Sherlock's larger hand into his own and tilts his head to the sofa. Sherlock's blush grows two shades darker and the mop of raven curls bob up and down before leading the way. Sherlock takes one end of the sofa, trying to put as much space between himself and John, but John is having none of it. He sits close enough that the other man can feel the heat coming off of him, but far enough away to remain a semblance of friendly distance.

Just before the silence becomes awkward and unbearable, Sherlock blurts out, "If this is about last night, John, I promise you that I can move into 221C or I could move out."

John stares at his counterpart in disbelief before stating in exasperation, "Move out? Why would you move out? This is your home, you git." He pauses just long enough to say a silent prayer that this isn't all a mistake before continuing, "However, this is about what you said last night. In fact, I was hoping to get your opinion on something." John begins dragging his thumb across the knuckles in his grasp as he says, "How would you feel if I told you that I want to spend the rest of my life with you here at Baker Street?"

Sherlock's eyes blink rapidly for several long seconds before he sucks in a sharp breath, face guarded but his eyes are full of hope as he haltingly asks, "W-what do you mean by that? You know you are always welcome here."

That mirrored hope gives him the courage to finally fucking talk to the other man, "What I mean, Sherlock, is that I want to grow old with you." He pauses briefly to stifle the last of his reservations before continuing, "What I'm trying to say is that I am in love with you. Have been for years now."

Out of every possible scenario John could think up last night before bed, Sherlock silently crying was not one of other hand not occupied in John's grasp covers his full cupid bows and his eyes clenched shut tightly as tears began trickling down his angular face. Just as John begins to panic, giggles begin spilling past Sherlock's lips in what sounds to be pure joy. Through the tears, Sherlock smiles softly and says, "I've been in love with you all this time."

John could not keep himself from touching Sherlock even if he tried. Arms envelope the detective tightly. The older man only lifts his head away from the crook of Sherlock's neck long enough to drop several kisses against the brunette's temple before holding him just as tightly as before.

Minutes or hours pass them by without the pair noticing. When they finally break their tight embrace, both men seem to finally realize how close they are to each other. John's eyes drop down to the detective's lips and one hand comes up to gently cup Sherlock's cheek. Slowly, so as to give Sherlock plenty of time to pull away if needed, John leans in and kisses the one and only Consulting Detective. It is soft and sweet and everything a first kiss should be. It was like a warm hello after years of being apart. It's like the start of a grand adventure, and this is a fond beginning.

Rosie eventually startles the pair by loudly giggling and clapping her hands at the scene in front of her. They smile at one another briefly before going over to collect the beautiful little girl to sit and cuddle for a little while. The three sit together in contentment. Rosie softly babbles to herself while her father and her adopted parent cradle their little girl between them, all the while sharing brief kisses. This is the perfect beginning to forever.

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 **Notes:** **On to the reason for this fanfiction. So, if you followed my other story (Elementary Emotion), I mentioned I would write a sweet little short thing. Here it is! If you've not read Elementary Emotion, I will gently encourage you to do so. I'm damn proud of that story and I'm unashamedly self promoting it now. :) This is my awkward Christmas gift to you all! Happy Holidays! May you have a wonderful Christmas and a very happy New Year!**

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 **Personal Note: So, it's been about a year now. I remember when we would stay up to ungodly hours and theorize and hope and believed in this and honestly, the cursed season was such a damn disappointment. I feel so disappointed in the last season. I remember believing that finally, finally, we would have the recognition we deserve. They could finally be together after 130 long years. They deserved so much more than they received. They deserved that love.**

 **I'm proud of you all, though. I am so damn proud of each and every one of you because you all continuously give them their happy endings. You should all be proud of the work you do because you keep them alive and your love for them shines through. We are fucking awesome. I'm so disappointed in the shit we received, but we've made damn sure that they are happy and that is more than enough.**

 **And, if you've found peace in the end, I am genuinely happy for you. I am genuinely pleased that you are satisfied and I hope no one ever takes that away, but for those of you who are not, please keep writing. Please keep sharing stories and creating fan art. I plan to (however mediocre or inadequate it may be).**


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